Читать книгу Hangar 13 - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 6

“Major Stanford, we’ve got trouble.”

Mac Stanford looked up from the F-15 maintenance reports commanding his attention. Master Sergeant Gus Calhoon stood in his doorway, looking very unhappy. Placing his pen aside, Mac gestured for him to come in and shut the door.

“What is it, Gus?” Mac reared slowly back in his chair, the springs protesting. The sounds of his maintenance crew at work in the hangar filtered in through the open window.

Gus hovered hesitantly by the door. His oval face was badly wrinkled, his blue eyes flinty, his mouth pursed. Finally he came over to the desk. “Sir, it’s happened again.”

Mac’s brow gathered in a frown. “Again? What’s happened again?” He searched his mind for what Gus could be referring to. Not for the first time that morning, Mac wished he could be flying. It was 0900 hours, and the sky at Luke Air Force Base near Phoenix, Arizona was clear and just begging to be flown in. But a big part of his job was being maintenance commander for the squadron. The sky would have to wait.

“You know…” Gus pleaded in a low voice. He glanced toward the door as if to make sure it was shut.

Mac’s dark brown brows dipped. “No, I don’t know, Gus. Fill me in.” He gestured toward his desk, which was littered with reports. “With the general inspection coming up, I’m lucky if I can remember my name.” The inspector general’s annual visit was a pain-in-the-neck event intended to determine the readiness of everything on the military base. Mac had a lot of pressures on him to get the squadron’s planes in shape. If Luke got its usual high marks in the IG, he’d still be eligible for his “early” lieutenant-colonel leaves.

Rubbing his square jaw, Gus sat down in the leather chair in front of the desk. “Sir, remember two weeks ago when Sergeant Claris was in the cockpit of the F-15 and a wrench was thrown at her? It hit her in the back and she sustained some bruises and a laceration?”

Mac groaned. He placed his hands on the desk, scowling. “Yes…did you ever find out who threw it at her?”

Gus raised his eyes. “Sir, I didn’t find anyone. Sergeant Claris was alone in Hangar 13, working late. There was no one around—just her.”

“Well, what’s happened now?” Mac tried to appear patient.

“It’s Hangar 13 again. Only this time, it happened to Sergeant Burke. He was up on the scaffolding checking out an F-15 engine when he got nailed.”

The master sergeant squirmed nervously in his chair. Mac was feeling a bit edgy himself, and his voice came out sharply. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Burke was working on the wing, and his assistant, Sergeant Turner, was in the cockpit. This—this wrench came flying through the air and hit Burke on the head. It drew blood, sir, and damn near knocked him off the scaffolding.”

Mouth twitching, Mac rose to his full six feet. “Who did it?”

“Uhh, no one…again, sir,” Gus muttered.

Mac stared at him in disbelief. Gus Calhoon was a crusty thirty-year veteran of the air force and had seen it all, from Korea, to Vietnam and, of late, Desert Storm. There was no one more practical, more down-to-earth, than Gus. Flexing his fingers, Mac slowly came around the end of the desk and stood in front of him.

“Don’t tell me—we’ve got a phantom wrench that flies through the air on its own?” Mac couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Gus wasn’t the kind of person to make up stories like this. Maybe, at sixty, he was ready to retire. Mac was half his age, and he had a great respect for his master sergeant, who often performed near miracles with those gnarled, long fingers of his on the cantankerous F-15’s in the hangar bay.

“I know, sir,” Gus muttered apologetically, shooting him a sad look. “I can’t explain how it happened, Major. But it did happen. Burke’s over at the hospital getting stitches.”

Mac heard the low, rumbling growl of two F-15’s in the distance, and fought the impulse to take off for the air strip. “What about his crew? Could one of them have thrown it at him? Maybe as a joke?”

Sourly, Gus shook his head. He was dressed in the typical dark green fatigues that all maintenance people wore. Rubbing his hands slowly up and down his thighs, Gus said, “I questioned Burke’s crew, and they swear they didn’t even see it happen.”

“What do you think? Could someone on Burke’s crew be holding a grudge?”

“No, sir. He’s well liked. You know that.”

“I guess I do.” Mac walked back around to his side of the desk. “This is the fourth incident in two months, Gus.”

“Yes, sir, and the last two have caused injuries.”

“Damn.” Mac sat down in his chair and searched his master sergeant’s grizzled features. “Okay, I’m open to suggestion. Its obvious you have something in mind. You’ve been holding it back ever since this stuff started happening. What is it?”

Gus stood up awkwardly, rubbing his hands on the sides of his fatigues in his characteristic gesture of nervousness. “Well, sir…I really hate to say it…”

With a wave of his hand, Mac muttered, “Nothing else you’ve offered explains these wrenches flying through the air. Try me.”

“I really don’t think you’re ready for the explanation I have in mind, Major.”

“Oh?”

“Sir, with all due respect, you’re a cut-and-dried kind of officer, a no-nonsense sort of individual.”

“All of that’s true,” Mac said, “but what does that have to do with your explanation?”

“Everything.” Gus shook his head. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you, but I don’t want it held against me. Okay?”

Mac had always encouraged his people to speak their mind. He’d been maintenance officer for the squadron for three years, and the people who worked under his command were the best in the business, in Mac’s opinion. One of his talents was to get the most out of them, and it had shown for three years in a row at IG time. Mac considered himself a good leader, and it was unusual for one of his people to consider him unapproachable. He said in a less-stern tone, “Whatever it is, Gus, I’ll handle it. Just sit down and tell me.”

The tone worked miracles on Gus, who instantly brightened. Rubbing his hands against his thighs, he sat down and said, “About two months ago my wife, Shelly, went to a metaphysical workshop put on by this woman named Ellie O’Gentry.” He shrugged a little apologetically to Mac. “Shelly has always been interested in psychic stuff. Anyway, she came home bubbling all over the place about this Eastern Cherokee shamaness and how she’d helped change Shelly’s outlook on life. I didn’t give it a thought—then. But—” Gus cleared his throat “—I do now.”

“What’s this got to do with our problem?” Mac demanded.

“Well, sir, after the second wrench was thrown at someone over in Hangar 13, I told Shelly about it. She said that this woman, Ellie, had talked about a phenomena called discarnate souls, spirits who were ‘stuck’ in a certain place. She said these spirits sometimes did things to get a human being’s attention.” Gus gulped and looked at Mac, waiting for some kind of reaction. When there was none, he went on hastily. “This shamaness was taught soul recovery and extraction by her mother, a medicine woman who still lives on the reservation back in Cherokee, North Carolina.” With a wave of his hand, Gus said, “Now, I don’t believe in all that stuff. I’m a prove-it-to-me man, sir. But I’ve seen such positive changes in my wife since she went for a healing, I’ve got to believe she believes something happened. Anyway, one of the things Ellie O’Gentry does is communicate with spirits.” Gus looked over his shoulder toward the door. “I don’t know, Major. Maybe we’ve got an unhappy spirit of some sort out there in Hangar 13.”

Mac sat there absorbing Gus’s explanation. His master sergeant, obviously embarrassed to bring up the subject, had colored a bright red. A huge part of Mac wanted to laugh, but he swallowed the urge in light of Gus’s sincerity. With a sigh, he said, “That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it, Gus?”

“Yes, sir, I know it is. But—” he rolled his eyes “—I honestly don’t have a better explanation why wrenches are suddenly flying through the air.”

“Dammit.” Mac got up and began to pace the length of his small, cramped office. Books on F-15 jet maintenance covered two walls of his office; a desk, chair and filing cabinet were squeezed into the narrow space. Mac walked over to the coffeemaker and filled two cups with the strong brew. He handed one to his master sergeant.

“Thank you, sir.”

Mac eased his frame against the desk as he sipped his steaming black coffee. “I think we need to deal with facts, and facts only, Gus.”

“No disagreement from me on that, sir.” Gus took a gulp of coffee and then rested it against his thigh. “These are the facts—four wrenches have been thrown at our people. In three out of the four cases, the people were working alone, in Hangar 13, late at night. The fourth incident took place with other people around, but they swear they didn’t throw the wrench.”

“Could any of these be hoaxes?”

Gus shrugged. “These are our top people, Major. They’re happy doing what they’re doing, none of them have any personal problems and they’re all up for either reenlistment or another rating.”

Mac knew his people were happy with him, and with the job they were doing in the air force. Scratching his head, he muttered, “It just doesn’t fit. I can’t see any of our personnel over in 13 causing that kind of trouble. They’re the cream of the crop.”

“I know,” Gus said. “Not only that, none of them willingly came forward to tell me about it. In each case, someone from the crew learned about it secondhand and came and told me.”

Sipping his coffee, Mac thought long and hard for a moment. He slanted a glance at Gus. “This spirit theory is the worst.”

Gus grinned a little. “Yes, sir, I know it is.”

“Hangar 13 was built two months ago, and a week after we moved in, this wrench-throwing started.”

“Yes, sir… I dunno, maybe it’s the number 13. You know how unlucky it is.”

Mac snorted. “I don’t believe in that malarkey one bit, Gus.”

“Yes, sir. It was just a thought….”

Frustrated, Mac turned and walked around the desk. He set the coffee mug down a little sharply. “My career would be washed up if I told my commanding officer I was checking out this shamaness because our people were getting nailed with flying wrenches.”

“I know,” Gus muttered unhappily. “That’s why I really hesitated telling you about her.”

“Is this woman a nut case?”

“Sir?”

“You know,” Mac growled, “one of those New Age types?”

“Uhh, I don’t know, sir. Shelly knows more about her. I never met the woman. I’ve only heard about what she does.

“I guess the only other thing we could do is call in the Air Police to start an investigation,” Gus offered unenthusiastically after a moment.

“No way.” The last thing Mac needed in his command was an ongoing investigation. He knew it would upset the rhythm he’d established on base if the Air Police started nosing around. And right now, with the IG two months away, he wanted to keep his people happy and on an even keel.

“Well,” Gus hedged carefully, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt any to talk to this lady, would it? Maybe she could shed some light on what’s going on.”

Fuming, Mac sat down. “Gus, this conversation doesn’t leave this office. Understand?”

Gus straightened in the chair to almost an at-attention stance. “Yes, sir! Not a word of it, Major.”

“Fine,” Mac muttered. “Call your wife and get the address and phone number of this woman.” He stared hard across the desk at his master sergeant. “I don’t like this, Gus.”

“I understand, sir.” Gus rose quickly. “But we’re at a point where we’re running low on options. I’ll get the info and have it on your desk within the hour, sir.”

“Fine. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mac sat in his office for a long time, the noise from Hangar 13 activities vaguely lapping into his awareness. The blue sky still beckoned like a lover calling him, and now he had to deal with this on top of all his other problems. He sighed in frustration as he eyed all the maintenance reports still awaiting his signature. With so many bases and stations being closed, Luke was getting extra squadrons, and more hangars were being built to accommodate the heavy influx of fighters and pilot personnel. Hangars 13, 14 and 15 had recently been completed, and construction was still underway on three more. The paperwork showed no signs of abating.

Flying had always helped Mac solve the multitude of problems he handled on a daily basis. He wanted to leave his office, hitch on a pair of g-chaps and grab his helmet from the squadron locker. But it seemed that, for today at least, he was grounded.

Tonight, he’d check out this Ellie O’Gentry on his way home. He’d have to be careful, though—he couldn’t let his bosses find out he was chasing this kind of lead. He decided to change out of his air force uniform and get into some civvies before he went to see her. That way, if he didn’t like her, she’d never know who he was or why he’d come. Mac couldn’t take any chances—if his superiors ever learned about this, he’d lose his chance for an early promotion. Hell, they’d probably drum him right out of the air force.

Ellie O’Gentry was kneeling in the backyard at her small Santa Fe-style house, tending her garden. At six p.m. the May sunlight had gone westward, and the temperature had cooled down enough for her to get some work done. She was dressed casually in jeans and a short-sleeved, mint green blouse, minus her usual sandals—Ellie always went barefoot when weeding. Her long, black hair was tamed into one thick braid down the center of her back, tendrils clinging damply to her brow and temples as she worked.

Sinking her long fingers into the warm, fertile earth, she smiled to herself. Gardening gave her such a grounded feeling; it always seemed to bring her closer to the natural energy of Mother Earth. Using the trowel, she dug around each of her carefully tended tomato plants. The song that she’d been humming, a sweat-lodge song used for healing, spilled softly from her lips. It was a song her mother had taught her, a lullaby used to help the seriously ill gather hope and strength to heal.

Ellie stopped humming abruptly and looked up. Had she heard something? She wasn’t sure. She sat up, her dirt-encrusted hands coming to rest on the thighs of her jeans. What had snagged her peripheral attention?

She quickly switched to her more intuitive side, a subtle transfer of attention through another lens of her being, and tilted her head. No, the sound she’d heard hadn’t been verbal. Her gaze riveted on the corner of the house that led to the front door. Someone was coming. She could sense him—and he was a male. Who? Brushing some of the dirt from her hands, Ellie was perplexed. She didn’t have any appointments scheduled for today.

Before she could muse further, she saw a man—a scowling man—very quietly turn the corner of the house. He halted and stared at her, his scowl deepening. Automatically, she scanned him with her intuitive “eyes,” a kind of sixth sense that allowed her to see inside her unexpected visitor.

Instantly, Ellie got in touch with the stranger’s tenseness. He was wary. And frustrated. With whom? Her? She certainly had never seen this man before. If she had, she would never have forgotten him—he made too vivid an impression. She sensed nothing dangerous about him, so she switched back to her visual eyes and took a good long look at him. He was tall and wiry, reminding her of a cougar she’d seen from time to time while she was growing up in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. His hazel eyes were large and intelligent looking, though shadowed. He had a square face, with a stubborn-looking chin. His dark brown hair was very short and neatly cut. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way. Ellie liked the crinkles at the corners of his eyes; they suggested he smiled a great deal. But he wasn’t smiling now, and his hands were draped tensely across the hips of the tan chino pants he was wearing.

He had a decided charisma, and Ellie found herself drawn very powerfully to the man. Was it his proud posture, his broad shoulders thrown back with confidence? The look of the eagle in his eyes, which told her he missed very little? Or something else? He seemed as if he were a warrior of some kind, a fighter, or someone who enjoyed challenging life in some way. There were a lot of angles to the man—sharp edges, perhaps, she mused, as she slowly got to her feet.

As Ellie approached him, she could feel his perusal, direct, intense and assessing. A part of her wanted to throw up a wall of defense, to guard herself against his almost-violating look, but something told her she didn’t have to.

For an instant, she felt the man’s surprise, and then, on its heels, his heat and desire. Desire? None of her impressions made any sense to her. The surprise lingered in his eyes, and she wondered what he wanted from her. Perhaps he was lost and looking for directions.

“Can I help you?” Ellie asked.

Mac tried to cover his surprise. The barefoot woman walking toward him was nothing like what he had expected. She was in her late twenties, he guessed; her gold-colored skin accentuated the oval face and high cheekbones typical of Native Americans. Strands of her thick black hair were loose around her hairline, some tendrils sticking to her brow and temples, emphasizing her earthy beauty. Could this woman be the shamaness? She looked so…normal.

Her gaze was direct, inquiring, and Mac felt her confidence and strength. She walked with a sureness, a serene kind of balance that was undeniable. He allowed his hands to fall from his hips.

“Yes, I was looking for a Ms. Ellie O’Gentry.”

Ellie halted a good six feet away from him. “That’s me. Who are you?”

“I’m Mac Stanford.”

“Are you lost, Mr. Stanford?”

“Excuse me?”

Ellie watched the play of surprise and hesitation in his eyes. “Are you lost?”

His mouth pulled into a grin. “No.”

She liked his eyes. They were a mixture of green, gold and brown, reminding her of the green trees, the fertile brown earth and the gold of Father Sun. And when the corners of his mouth drew hesitantly into a brief smile, she felt an incredible blanket of warmth surround her. The feeling caught Ellie off guard.

Mac pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He’d worn a conservative blue-and-white striped shirt and comfortable jogging shoes. “Your name was given to me by Mrs. Shelly Calhoon.”

“Oh…yes.” Ellie held his interested gaze. “You’re here regarding soul recovery and extraction?”

“Excuse me?”

It was her turn to smile. “I’m making assumptions, Mr. Stanford. Why are you here? You don’t have an appointment. At this time of day, I reserve my time for my garden.”

“I see….” Mac scrambled for a reply, because he knew she was going to ask him to make an appointment and leave. There was something fascinating about Ellie O’Gentry. She was decidedly Native American in appearance—so why was her last name O’Gentry? All of a sudden, Mac had a lot of questions that had nothing to do with his original reason for coming.

“Look,” he murmured apologetically, “I’m sorry for not calling first. But…something’s come up and your name was given to me. If I could just have about fifteen minutes of your time?”

Rubbing the last of the drying soil off her hands, Ellie asked, “Then you’re a friend of Shelly’s?”

“In a roundabout way,” Mac hedged. He watched as she leaned down to the faucet and rinsed her hands. Ellie’s movements were sure and graceful. It wasn’t often he met a woman with so much confidence. Whatever life had dealt Ellie, she’d come out stronger for it.

Ellie straightened and dried her hands on her jeans. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not who you seem to be?”

Heat nettled Mac’s cheeks, and he realized with a start that he was blushing. Unsettled, he said, “I’m looking for a psychic, somebody who can help answer a question I have.”

“I’m a shamaness, Mr. Stanford, not a psychic. There’s a difference.”

“There is?”

Ellie held on to her patience. He was genuinely surprised, and she could feel his intense need to talk with her. “A big difference. I was just going to make dinner—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinnertime—”

“No, that’s okay. Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee and you can tell me why you’re here and what you want from me.”

Mac nodded and followed her around to the front door. Ellie seemed to have an unsettling ability to see right through him. Or was that just his imagination? He snorted to himself and followed her into the cool confines of the stucco home.

The living room was well lit; the floor, a warm, golden pine, was covered with a Navajo rug of gray, white and black. Above the ivory couch hung an Indian flute adorned with several long brown-and-white feathers. There were also several framed pictures of flowers and pastoral landscapes.

The ivory-colored walls made the most of the light, and Mac liked the large array of greenery displayed on both sides of the large picture window. Ellie had brought the outdoors in; she clearly loved the land.

Mac followed her across the living room and into the pale yellow kitchen. She gestured to a glass table and the bamboo chairs that surrounded it.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Stanford, and I’ll be back in a moment.” She pointed to her jeans. “I’m dirty.”

He nodded and eased one of the bamboo chairs away from the table. “Sure, go ahead.” Good, this would give him a chance to check her out further. Mac felt a little guilty about his deception, because Ellie seemed honest, straightforward and generous with her time—considering he didn’t have an appointment.

What did a shamaness do? He’d wondered that all the way over here. He didn’t have a clue and didn’t want to guess. Soul recovery and extraction? It sounded like a visit to the dentist’s office! Smiling, he walked over to the kitchen counter. There were four ceramic canisters, each painted with flowers, making the counter look as if it was in bloom, too. Small pots of cactus sat on the windowsill above the sink.

Looking around the kitchen, Mac decided that Ellie’s home didn’t look particularly out of the ordinary. Sitting down, he heard soft, Native American flute music emanating from another part of the house. Somehow, the picture he had of Ellie just didn’t jibe with what he was observing. Tapping his fingers absently on the clean glass surface of the table, Mac noticed the fresh bouquet of wildflowers, some red, some pink and others yellow. He smiled. How long had it been since he’d seen wildflowers? He decided that Ellie was the exact opposite of him: he was a man who owned the sky and loved to live in it. She was a woman of the earth, firmly planted in it, bare feet and all.

“Would you like some coffee?”

Mac jumped. Ellie had entered so quietly he hadn’t heard her. She was still in her bare feet, although now she wore a lightweight denim skirt that grazed her ankles and a fresh, white blouse. Her hair had been brushed, too, the blue-black locks caught up in a loose ponytail with a bright red scarf.

“Yes…please.”

Ellie went to the sink and began to prepare her coffeepot, an old-style one that perked on the electric stove. “So what brings you here, Mr. Stanford?” She turned to him briefly and saw that his darkly tanned face was still tense, his eyes still shadowed.

“Well, I’ve got a problem, and you were suggested as a person who might be able to help me.”

Ellie put the coffee grounds into the basket, put the lid on the pot and placed it on the stove. She got down two cups and set them on the table. Going to the refrigerator, she took out the cream. She sat down and placed the creamer between them on the table. “What problem?” she asked.

Mac cleared his throat. “I’m a little embarrassed to even talk about it, to tell you the truth.”

“Why?” Ellie folded her hands and rested her chin against them. Mac Stanford was blushing again. His cheeks were a dull red color, and she could almost take pity on him—almost, but not quite. He was hiding something from her, and that made her wary. Still, she had to fight a powerful attraction to him. His self-confidence was like sunlight, something that she honored in any person, but his was charismatic—and dangerous—to her.

With a shrug, Mac said, “Normally, I don’t go to a psychic—”

“Excuse me, but I think we need to get our terminology straightened out before we go any further.”

Mac stared at her. “Okay.”

“I’m a shamaness, Mr. Stanford.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Yes and no. First of all, I’m a healer.” Ellie opened her long, spare hands toward him. “I’m half Eastern Cherokee and half white. I was born and raised on the Cherokee reservation in North Carolina. My mother is a medicine woman for our people, and so is my sister, Diana. I inherited some of my mother’s metaphysical abilities, but they are expressed differently through me than through her or my sister.”

“Metaphysical?” Mac felt like a first grader.

“Meta means ‘beyond the physical or seen world.”’ Ellie pointed to her eyes. “When something is metaphysical, it means that it’s beyond our visual capability.” A slight smile touched her mouth as she pointed to the center of her forehead. “But we all have another ‘eye’ we can see with. This third eye is called the brow chakra. Most people don’t use it. They’re only in tune with the left side of their brain, the side that uses their physical eyes to view the three-dimensional world. But the right brain, the intuitive side, has an eye, too, of sorts. It’s located here, in the center of our forehead.”

“Hold it,” Mac said, raising his hands. “You’ve lost me completely.”

“I don’t really get the feeling you want to know anyway, Mr. Stanford,” Ellie said patiently.

Mac sat back, frowning. Her directness was unsettling to him. Or, maybe more to the point, he wasn’t used to finding this typically male trait in a woman. “You’re right,” he admitted.

“So,” Ellie said, folding her hands and challenging him with her gaze, “why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here? Are you a police detective? An undercover agent?”